Lost in Translation
by Hades Lord of the Dead
Summary: "I remembered the pain and the falling and the cold. But before that... Nothing." An englishman is saved from drowning by an Italian ship and wakes with no memory as to who he is. Meanwhile, the day after John Watson's funeral, Sherlock Holmes is tasked by his brother to locate a highly skilled assassin. Without his Boswell to assist him, will he be up to the job? NOT a death!fic.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

"Mrs Hudson, have you seen my cufflinks?"

She looked up from the brooch she had been attaching to her dress. "Cufflinks? You must have around a dozen pairs Mr Holmes. Not all of them are lost, surely?"

"No," I replied. "I wanted to wear a particular pair today. They were a gift..." I had just caught sight of the cane, leaning just inside the doorway. He must have forgotten it, when we left... "They were engraved?"

Mrs Hudson noticed the direction of my gaze and shook her head sadly. "No Mr Holmes, I haven't seen any."

"No, well... I shall fetch another set then, before we go." She nodded, her eyes back on the brooch.

I dashed upstairs and when I had returned with the cufflinks - not my pair of preference - she was still struggling to pin it on with trembling hands.

"Here," I said, "let me."

"Thank you."

It was odd, seeing her in black. It reminded me of when Watson and I had first taken up lodgings here, in Baker Street, and she had been in mourning for her husband.

Perhaps she too was thinking of her husband, for although I had finished pinning the brooch, the silence continued. Or perhaps she was thinking of my own "death". Either way I could stand it no longer - I cleared my throat.

"Shall we?"

She gave a sudden jerk, jolted from her thoughts. "Yes... yes, of course."

I opened the door for her, then followed her out. Just as I was closing it I saw again the cane leaning beside the coat stand and my mind was cast back to a similar occasion...

* * *

"_A case, Watson!" I cried. "There is no time to waste, I have organised the luggage to be sent on separately."_

_He had barely stepped through the front door, but withdrew back onto the street all the same. I grabbed my coat and followed. _

"_Where are we going, Holmes?" he asked, hailing a cab._

"_Portsmouth," I replied, stepping in to the hansom. "To the train station, cabbie!"_

_He smiled as the horses clattered away, no doubt sensing my excitement. _

_The game was afoot!_

* * *

There were many people at the funeral. Even the Irregulars, Wiggins and the rest, dressed with whatever black scraps they had succeeded in getting their hands on.

I spotted several inspectors as well of course, among them Lestrade who nodded gravely at me.

It was he who had been in charge of the case...

* * *

_We ran through the fog, portions of sea flashing between the wooden slats making up the boardwalk beneath us._

_The end of the walkway reared up from out of the fog without warning, and I pulled up suddenly. I struggled to maintain my footing and, just as I was about to topple into the tumultuous waters before me, a hand grabbed the back of my coat and yanked me back onto solid wood._

"_We must have missed him!" I yelled in frustration, turning to Watson._

"_Then perhaps Lestrade has caught him?" Watson suggested. He too was shouting to be heard over the wind, which was threatening to whip into quite a storm._

"_Perhaps..." I turned back, looking out over the sea and breathing heavily. The wood beneath me shook with every wave that splashed against it. "Still, I would rather not leave the capture down to Lestrade, not-"_

_But I was interrupted by a cry from behind. I swung around, just in time to hear a _splash! _and to see a shadowy figure standing where Watson had been a moment before._

_The figure darted away, back into the fog, but I did not waste time in pursuit of the criminal. I flung myself down at the edge of the walkway, scanning the sea desperately for some sign, or trace, of a person..._

* * *

A slab of stone. Simple, engraved with only a few words, and laid to rest beside his wife's grave.

I listened numbly as the vicar said the appropriate phrases, wondering vaguely whether Watson would have wanted me to prepare anything. A speech or a eulogy. Wondering what he said at _my _funeral. But then, he always had been better with words than I.

The vicar fell silent. It had been a short service and for a while we all stood, each with our own thoughts and memories.

* * *

_I was on my feet as soon as Lestrade entered the room. _

"_Have you- have you found-?"_

_He shook his head and I sat down again, slowly, on one of the chairs in the Portsmouth police station. Lestrade came and sat beside me._

"_We will keep looking, Mr Holmes," he said, "but I think it would be best that you return to London. I shall contact you if- if we find anything."_

_I knew what he was had been missing for two days. Two minutes was nearly enough time for a man to drown. _

_Still, I couldn't think of that yet. I had to maintain my composure, at least until I had informed Mrs Hudson. I stood up._

"_Thank you, Inspector."_

* * *

They did not find the body. It saddened me to think of Watson, drifting out there somewhere, never quite laid to rest.

People began to leave, some nodding to me grimly as they filtered past. Soon I was one of the last remaining. I felt a hand on my arm.

"Come along, Mr Holmes," Mrs Hudson said in an deceivingly matter-of-fact tone. I had no doubt that her eyes were red and watery beneath the shadow of her veil. I allowed myself to be led away to a cab and then back to 221B.

I ate with Mrs Hudson that night in the kitchen, neither of us wishing to be alone. Toward the end of the meal she raised her glass. "To Doctor Watson," she said, and I raised my own.

"To Watson."

* * *

**A/N **- _THE END.  
No sorry, I'm totally joking. Despite what it might currently seem this is NOT a death!fic. Second chapter soon to follow, so things can become a little clearer._


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

The first thing I could remember was the pain. Sharp, at the back of my head. Then I was falling, falling into something so cold I couldn't breathe for a moment. Cold and... _wet?_ I sank beneath the cold then bobbed back up, then back down again, at the mercy of the wet mass which possessed me.

Then I heard something. Voices.

"_Che è quello?"_

They were a long way off.

"_È _ _una persona!"_

I shouldn't worry about them.

"_Puoi sentirmi? Ehi! Puoi sentirmi?"_

But they were getting louder...

"_Non risponde. "_

What were they saying?

"_Lascialo perdere. "_

I couldn't understand.

"_No! Non possiamo! "_

Why couldn't I understand?

"È _un uomo morto, Matteo. Lascialo perdere."_

No matter. They were drifting away now. And the cold was tugging me back...

But all of a sudden I felt something new - something _warm _- envelop me. The voices were back, but there were too many of them, all babbling over each other. So I ignored them.

It was my turn to drift away; I drifted into darkness.

* * *

"_Avresti dovuto lasciarlo affogare."_

When I woke up the voices were still there, but I was much warmer than I had been. I felt distinctly comfortable in fact.

"_La decisione spettava a me, non a te Angelo."_

I still couldn't understand a word they were saying.

_"Davvero? Non mi ricordo che tu mi abbia mai chiesto se volevo uno sconosciuto a condividere la nostra stanza."_

Arguing. They were definitely arguing.

"_Oh, piantala di lamentarti."_

Quite loudly too.

"_Io _non _mi sto-"_

Perhaps I ought to tell them to keep it down...

"_Shh! Si sta svegliando! Svelto, va a prendere un po' d'acqua!"_

One of them was leaving now, though he didn't sound happy about it. Good, I could go back to sleep...

"Hello! Hello?"

Ah! Finally, something I could understand. I opened my eyes, and a man's face swam into focus above me. He smiled.

"You _are_ English!" he exclaimed, as though nothing in the world could have made him happier. "My name is Matteo. What is your name?"

I opened my mouth and then closed it again, confused. I remembered the pain and the falling and the cold. But before that...

Nothing.

* * *

**A/N **- _Massive thank you to _**I'm Nova **_for translating the Italian!_

_I'm not at all sure how often I'll be updating this - please don't be angry at me when school starts up again and I'm busy and all my stuff stops gettiing updated. Actually you can be angry, since I'm angry at that too. Stupid real life._

_Oh and _

_Review please? _


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

It was the day after the funeral, and the living room felt exceedingly... _normal. _So normal, in fact, that it was far too easy to imagine that Watson would be returning later that day. But I knew, of course, that that would not - _could _not - happen. His possessions, which were scattered about the place, did not help matters - the cane by the coat stand was only the beginning. His pens, his notebooks, his books on the shelf... they all helped in purveying the illusion that he was still alive.

Technically now they were _my _possessions; Watson had left everything to me in his will, which was not an inconsiderable amount given the ongoing profits from his stories. But I was loathe to disturb anything. It was foolish I knew, but then grief is often irrational. I dared not even think of entering his bedroom yet.

I did, however, know that I would have to face up to these things sooner or later. And in this case, I felt that the longer I left it, the harder it would be. So once I had finished looking around at the living room which had become suddenly far too large for just one person, I walked resolutely to the writing desk in the corner and sat down at it.

I reached my hand down to open the left topmost drawer, but paused. In here, I knew, Watson had kept his old drafts and notebooks; those bits of writing unready for publication. It felt as though I was invading his privacy, but I couldn't keep it closed forever. I grasped the handle and prepared to yank it open.

"Mr Holmes?"

I leapt up so fast that the chair I had been seated in fell to the floor with a loud clatter. Mrs Hudson looked faintly confused but made no comment, instead saying, "Mr Holmes, you have a visitor."

"Kindly tell them that I am not taking on any cases at the moment," I replied, righting the chair.

"Yes, but you see-"

"From _anyone_," I added firmly. She opened her mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by a shout from downstairs.

"Oh for heaven's sake Sherlock, it's me!"

"Mycroft? Er, show him up please Mrs Hudson," I said to my landlady, who rolled her eyes but went to do so. "And lunch would be appreciated, if you could bring something up."

"Of course Mr Holmes."

She left to be replaced by my brother, who lumbered into the living room far slower than she had left it.

"Sherlock," he grunted in way of greeting, looking thoroughly exhausted, "may I sit down?"

"Certainly. _Not _there," I added sharply. He had been about to drop into Watson's armchair, but now moved to the sofa where he collapsed instead with a sigh of relief. As he did so Mrs Hudson entered the room with lunch.

For once, however, my brother was not focussing on the food in the room. His face was instead set in deep scrutiny and, unless I was much mistaken, it was _me _he was observing. His watery grey eyes scanned my face and clothes, taking in every aspect of my appearance.

"I am sorry I didn't come to the funeral," he said abruptly. There was something odd in his expression, something... hidden? "I should have been there. I _planned_ to be there, but-"

"It is of no consequence," I cut across him. "It- it doesn't matter."

"No..." his own voice tailed off - again, I felt there was something he was thinking about - and he shifted slightly in his seat. There was a momentary pause in which he cleared his throat, before saying, "I have something which I would appreciate that you looked into for me."

I raised an eyebrow. "You have disturbed your daily habits merely to give me a _case?_"

He took little notice of my interruption. "A man was murdered yesterday. Assassinated actually. A member of the Diogenes Club, his name was Mr Oscar Long."

"Mr?" I repeated, my eyebrows rising with something akin to amusement. "Not Sir or

Lord?"

"No Sherlock," my brother's tone was sombre, oddly so, "his wealth was self made."

"And are you sure he was assassinated?" I asked.

"Positive," Mycroft responded promptly, picking up a sandwich at last and biting into it, "I

saw the body myself." I felt my eyebrows rise higher. My _brother _had been doing his own legwork?

If he saw my surprise he did not show it, but continued, "The assassin was a man of approximately 5ft 10 inches, he had black hair, size 11 feet and I heavily suspect he stayed in an inn in Ealing, called The Rabbit's Foot. Since then I fear he has gone to ground. Physically fit, good with a knife - _very _good in fact, to Mr Long's disadvantage - and-"

"Mycroft, _this _isn't a case!" I exclaimed. "This is a... a manhunt!"

"Perhaps, but it is of the utmost importance that I discover why Mr Long was killed," Mycroft replied, his face impassive, "and to do that you must locate the assassin and discover his employer. As I was saying, his name, from what I have been able to find out today,

is Antonio. He has not given a second name to any who have met him. I am sure you understand that it is entirely possible that Antonio is merely an alias he is using."

I looked at him curiously for a few moments and he stared back, face still unreadable. "Why should I find him? If you have this good a description, surely you could set any government detective to do the same job?"

"No, I would rather it were you," he said brusquely, and laid his half eaten sandwich aside, standing. "Now, I must return to Whitehall - I have been gone too long as it is. Find him Sherlock. You will, won't you?"

"Well, yes... of course," I replied, completely puzzled. He nodded his thanks and left, with surprising speed. I frowned.

There was something Mycroft was not telling me. He must have had easier ways to find a man, with all of the power of the British government behind him. Why, then, was he so insistent it be I who locate this assassin? Then suddenly my own words came floating back to me and everything made sense.

_Work is the best antidote to sorrow..._

Could it be that he had brought this "case" to me, simply as a way to prevent me from falling into doldrums? Well if that were true, then-

I sighed.

If that were true then he was right and I could not truthfully say that I was ungrateful for the distraction this task would provide me.

I took my coat from the stand and left, thinking of all the places this assassin could be and where I would look first. Already Watson's desk, and the as yet unopened top drawer of his writing desk, were far from my mind.

* * *

**A/N - **_Again thank you to _**I'm Nova **_for her input!_

_Last night before school so sorry for delayed updates... _

_Also from here on in I apologise for any plot holes/mistakes I may make, and you are more than welcome to point them out to me. And to point out stuff you like/want to see more of. _

_Thanks!_


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